Maybe I’ll Write
I really love writing. I always say I went into the wrong profession…nursing. Because I pretty much never use my writing ability in nursing. I say I should have been an English teacher, except the students would hate me because I’d make their papers bleed and I’d have too high expectations. Or maybe a journalist, except that’s a career that requires a lot of self-starting, and sometimes I’m okay at that, but sometimes I’m not so great at it. Sometimes, even now, 5 years into nursing (4 jobs in total), I consider writing in some capacity. I’ve looked into freelance writing for medical/nursing organizations. But again…how do you even begin to start doing that? And can it be fun? I’ve edited papers and nursing school application essays often…and for free. Honestly, I probably will not work for free in such capacity anymore. It can be so incredibly painful to hash through adult writing that contains such dismal vocabulary, obvious sentence fragments that make it feel like I should just stop in that moment because there’s no way it could go anywhere from there, formatting in the style of a 3rd grader, and so many other insults to writing.
Tonight I finished editing my dad’s resume. Okay, maybe more like rewriting his resume using points he’d written out in paragraph form. No offense to my dad. I certainly didn’t get my abilities to take a simple, uninviting, disenchanting sentence and turn it into, in my opinion, a masterpiece of a sentence that flows effortlessly and beautifully…from him. I get such gratification from doing things like that — editing papers or resumes and turning them from dusty, unsightly things to pretty, pristine, neat little masterpieces.
I’ve tried to blog a million times before. I wrote on the website OpenDiary.com when I was young. Religiously. I have some of the OD entries I wrote printed, but OD shut down entirely a year or two ago, so I lost hundreds of entries. It’d be the equivalent of throwing your paper journals/diaries from your childhood/adolesence into fire. There is nothing I can do to retrieve them, and that is really devastating every time I think of it. I also wrote poetry…so much poetry. I have a 3inch notebook with most of my poems neatly typed out on different colored paper, placed in page protectors — possibly one of my most prized possessions. As many times as I have tried to blog in my adult life, it rarely lasts long. I fail at committing to it, I write entries with varied lengthy spans of time between them, and then I forget that I even started yet another blog. Which email did I use for that one?? And poetry? In my adult life, I often wonder where on EARTH that ability to express myself in fluid verse came from, and where on earth it went. Sometimes I think it came from my constant inner turmoil and the constant outer chaos and the fact that I didn’t have a bunch of other mindless bullshit to distract me from it. Yep, I bet that’s what it is. Now, instead of writing, I can just Facebook stalk the new girl from work, or scroll through Pinterest looking for some deep, meaningful quote or advice. Then I can watch Chelsea on Netflix and think about how amazing it would be to be her friend and how we would get along so well.
I’m sick of all of that shit. I am sick of drama-enthralled idiots who do nothing but sit around on Facebook and pick fights, those moms who are working so hard to compete with other moms by sitting around on Pinterest pinning the next irrationally extravagant themed party they’re going to throw for their three year old who won’t even fucking remember the day, and the xenophobic, white supremacists who are blindly and vehemently supporting such profound ignorant rhetoric against people they know nothing about.
Listen, I grew up in a small town. A small unknown town where people have field parties for weekend entertainment and show up to each others’ houses without invitations and grab their Chevy Silverado with the conveniently installed towing pulley to go pull their friend and his tractor out of the giant sinkhole of mud he’s stuck in. I know what people are exposed to in those places. Like, when my grandparents came to the city I live in now, and my grandfather saw a white woman wearing a scarf around her head in a restaurant and announced, “There’s one of them Muslims!”…there is no better testament to the fact that he has been cultured in no way whatsoever. It is really, really unfortunate, but it is not necessarily their fault. It’s just the product of their circumstances. The ignorance I understand. However, what really drives me to anger is the judgement in the presence of that ignorance. If you have never had an interaction with a Muslim, a Jew, a Buddhist, an atheist, what can you judge about them? Nothing. You cannot judge anything that you know nothing about.
Let me tell you, coming from a place like that makes it really hard to maintain any sort of liberal or open-minded thought process. It is something you must work very hard at all the time. Something you must be extremely thoughtful about all the time. Something you must judge yourself about. But the result of working on it is so extraordinary. A life that involves learning about different cultures, religions, ethnicities, ways of life, etc is an abundant one. And a life that involves an open heart to differences is a liberating one, a peaceful one.
So, I’m here to write about that, and everything else that crosses my mind. Hopefully, I’ll do a better job of committing. Hopefully someone will gain something from it or like it or maybe someone will even hate it, but at least they read it and I least I wrote it.
So, here goes nothing. Maybe I’ll Write.